Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 6, June 2006

Politics and Poker by Sarah Weinman

The first time I attended Saturday morning services at Beth Jacob, a man was killed during his own wedding.

The second time proved to be less dramatic, but not by much.

“Oh dear God, he’s going to give a speech after all,” Sam Levin muttered loudly enough for everyone around him to hear.

“You mean he’s not supposed to?” I whispered back, leaning forward so Sam could hear me better.

“No, it’s now a tradition for the rabbi to say something at bar and bat mitzvahs. The trouble is the speeches they give are so long that people forget who it was they actually came to hear.”

Sam had every right to be annoyed. It was his granddaughter being bat mitzvahed, and so it was supposed to be her special day. And she’d given a pretty good speech too. Others would tell me later that Shira’s speech was one of the better ones they’d heard out of the mouths of twelve year olds. But because I didn’t understand what she was talking about — something about the laws of purity — all this was lost on me.

Not on Sam, though; he’d beamed throughout the speech, proud of his granddaughter’s oratory skills in front of the sprawling crowd of four hundred or so. But the smile had become a scowl, and that didn’t bode well. When Sam was in a bad mood, it was a good idea to be as far away from him as possible.

Considering I worked for him at Pern’s five days a week, that didn’t usually happen.

“Is there any way to walk out of here?” I asked, only half kidding.

I got the answer I deserved: a glare.

Sam had insisted I be seated as close to him as possible. Originally, he wanted me to sit next to him, but his children had been adamant that the front row was reserved strictly for immediate family members. Sam and I had grown closer over the years, but I wasn’t blood and never would be. So as a consolation, I sat directly behind him.

I’d have been happy to sit anywhere, but I didn’t want to disappoint the older man. So I braved his family’s curious stares and overly loud whispers as to what I was doing there, and now I had a ringside seat to what looked to be a very good show, if Sam’s mutinous expression was anything to judge by.

I leaned back in the uncomfortable seat and waited for the rabbi to begin.

“A fine speech, young lady,” he boomed from the pulpit. “But I’d like to take a little time to elaborate on some of the finer points of the parsha just to make things a little clearer.” The girl smiled up at the rabbi in some approximation of respect, but she looked like she’d rather be somewhere else.

Sam filled me in on the synagogue’s newest hire about a week before the bat mitzvah. Rabbi Kranzman was supposed to signal the shul’s willingness to update to the twentieth century, hiring someone who was actually under the age of seventy. In fact, Kranzman was all of twenty-nine, fresh out of rabbinical school and full of verve and ideas.

The problem, as Sam explained, was that the rabbi had a tendency to alienate everyone around him. He’d tell the big shots and longtime donors that they really should try to walk to synagogue instead of drive, or criticize the mechitzah for being too low, actually allowing the men to see their wives and children across the room. But Kranzman reserved most of his ire for two people in particular: Jack Reichstein, the synagogue’s long-standing president, and Meyer Cohen, the cantor. Most people figured the latter feud had to do with money and status, while the former had to do with religious leanings.

Then there was Kranzman’s ego, on display every week if you chose to attend Sabbath services. He’d get up and start on the current Torah portion, but by the end, the topic had somehow drifted to the life and times of Menachem Kranzman.

“So why haven’t they fired him?” I once asked Sam one afternoon during a lull period at the store.

Sam shrugged. “Nobody can figure it out. How a young man can make so many enemies in such a short period is quite a talent.”

I understood that all too well, but when I tried to say this, Sam stopped me. “You’re different, Danny. You made a concerted effort to change yourself. Rabbi Kranzman has no intentions whatsoever of damping down his ego.”

“Does anyone like him?”

Sam smirked. “Only the eligible women. God help any of them who end up his rebbetzin.”

Watching him speak, I couldn’t see what could possibly attract women to this guy. He was tall, a little gaunt, with a pointy black beard and sideburns that went a long way past unruly. And his eyes were a piercing shade of blue — the kind that if I’d encountered them on a remote street corner back in my old life, I’d try to get away from immediately.

Sam elbowed me. “Oh my god! This is even worse than usual!”

I scanned the men’s section — jaws were dropped everywhere. What had the rabbi just said? I paid closer attention. “—a worthless community! I can’t understand what is afflicting all of you! I try and I try but none of you care to understand the true path of Hashem. You’re all so caught up with your busy lives and self-absorption that you have lost your way. All I see are chiluls everywhere!”

“What’s a chilul?” I whispered.

“Transgression, abomination, like that,” answered Sam.

In this community? What was this rabbi smoking?

But he wasn’t finished. Another ten minutes of diatribe passed as he lectured the entire congregation on how unworthy they were, how their stubborn clinging to “outdated methods” like Modern Orthodoxy would be their undoing. And that he wasn’t about to stick around to watch them sink into a morass of debauchery and filth.

“Is he saying what I think he’s saying?”

Sam’s face had turned so red it was veering uncomfortably close to a mixture of flame-colored and deep purple. “He can say whatever he wants but it won’t matter — he’s ruining my granddaughter’s bat mitzvah!”

No kidding. Sam’s expression was now dangerously close to outright terror.

“Shouldn’t somebody—”

Sam grabbed my shoulder. “Not you, Danny. Let him finish.”

No one else said a word, and the rabbi finally finished his tirade uninterrupted, sweat pouring down his forehead. He gave the congregation one last scowl and stormed out of the synagogue.

Sam’s granddaughter got up, looking like she was about to cry. She motioned for her parents to join her on the pulpit.

Amazingly, the ceremony continued as if the rabbi’s speech had never happened. Shira’s parents blessed the girl, then signaled for everyone to go downstairs for the post — bat mitzvah meal. At first, no one quite knew what to say to each other. It was supposed to be a celebration, but the atmosphere felt positively funereal.

Then Sam hushed the crowd.

“Well, you have to admit, that’s a hell of a way to resign from a synagogue.”

The crowd laughed nervously, then more genuinely, and things went back to an approximation of normal.

I wondered if I’d ever attend a completely uneventful synagogue service.

A week later I was in the shop waiting for Sam to show up. We were supposed to go over the monthly accounts together, but he was over an hour late. It wasn’t like him; normally he beat me to the shop by twenty minutes, and I always made sure to be there a half hour before opening.

I’d just begun to dial his number when someone shrieked behind me.

“Danny! Sam’s in terrible trouble!”

It was Sam’s daughter Rebecca, the mother of the unfortunate bat mitzvah girl. I’d met her for the first time at the synagogue, and unlike his son Reuben, who clearly couldn’t understand why Sam had invited the token goy, Rebecca seemed reasonably civil, if a bit distracted.

I tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

“No, no, there’s no way I can possibly be calm, not with my father in jail!”

I couldn’t process her words. “Sam? In jail?”

“Oh Danny, it was awful! He’s so frail, you know, and when the police came to arrest him—”

“Rebecca, please! Sit down.” I rushed from behind the counter and found a nearby chair. I brought it toward the counter and motioned for her to sit.

She sat.

“Now,” I said, facing her directly, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Rabbi Kranzman was murdered last night. The police think Sam did it.”

“Why the hell would they think that?” I blurted out.

“Because of the bat mitzvah,” said Rebecca, “and the fact that the rabbi used it as a way to get attention to himself.”

“That’s a reason for him to kill someone? Seems pretty flimsy.”

“The cops, they’ll find any reason to arrest someone. And now they’ve found one for my father.” She buried her face in her hands.

“Please, Rebecca, don’t cry. I need you to start from the beginning. The rabbi was murdered?”

It took a while, but eventually the story came out. Kranzman’s elderly neighbor noticed that the door to his house had been slightly ajar. She’d come in, figuring that there had to be a pretty good reason, but not thinking clearly beyond that. So when Mrs. Gertel found Kranzman lying on the floor, stabbed at least fifteen times according to the cops, she ran away screaming and called for help.

The police showed up and started asking questions. Somehow they’d got wind of the whole resignation affair and the utter fury Sam had directed toward the rabbi.

“But didn’t they hear about the party?” I asked. “He was in great spirits afterward.”

Rebecca sighed. “Oh Danny, you didn’t know about their run-in?”

“What run-in?”

“In the men’s bathroom. Kranzman had come back because he felt entitled to eat the food as ‘an invited guest.’ The nerve! But no one could kick him out. Sam tried to and yelled at him so loudly that almost everyone could hear. Where were you?”

I’d left early because I hadn’t wanted to keep Sharon waiting. It was our date night and I’d never broken one once since we’d started going out.

But I didn’t want to explain that to Rebecca. “I had to leave early.”

“And my father didn’t tell you what happened?”

“Now that you mention it, he did seem awfully quiet for the past few days.”

“Well, he threatened Rabbi Kranzman. Said that if he didn’t resign like he’d promised to the public, then he — my father, I mean — would make him pay dearly.”

That didn’t sound like Sam at all. “Those were his words? ‘Pay dearly?’ ”

“When there were over four hundred witnesses...” she trailed off, sounding more helpless than ever.

She tugged at my sleeve. “Danny, you have to get Sam out.”

“Well of course,” I said. “How much is bail?”

“No, not that! He’ll be out by morning. Even though it’s a hundred thousand dollars bond.”

The cops obviously had much more than they’d told Sam’s family, but I didn’t say anything. “All right, if not bail, then what?”

She looked at me meaningfully.

I shook my head. “Rebecca, I don’t know what Sam told you about me—”

“But you helped Rabbi Brenner out. And Mrs. Sandell—”

“Those were one-offs. I just work in a Judaica bookstore that Sam owns. That’s it.”

“Danny, we’ll pay very well.”

She’d said the worst possible thing. I didn’t want charity money from the Levins and I said so.

Rebecca seemed genuinely apologetic. “I thought that might help, but of course you’re right. You’ve worked with him for so long, he means much more to you than mere money. And truly, Danny, you might even know Sam better than any of us. What would it take for you to help him, to help us?”

I was no private investigator. But somehow, people kept finding me to help them out with little problems. Things like following would-be son-in-laws around Baltimore looking for their dark side. Or spying on community matrons’ husbands, looking for some tragic flaw that would enable the women to divorce the louts and collect their due. All ending in ways I never expected, leaving people far worse off than they had been before they’d enlisted me to help.

I’d had my reasons, but I didn’t relish doing the same task again. Especially for something far more personal.

But Rebecca was right; Sam did mean a lot to me. And I couldn’t let him down.

“Who else do I need to talk to?”

As it happened, not too many others.

Sam was the obvious one, but for some reason, he didn’t want me to see him.

I asked Rebecca why.

“He only wants you to talk to him once you’ve had a chance to meet everyone else.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. They weren’t arrested for murder.”

“No,” she said, trying to keep an even keel, “but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be.”

I started at the top, so to speak, with the president of the synagogue. I didn’t harbor too many hopes he’d tell me anything, but he was surprisingly friendly on the phone.

“Mr. Colangelo! So nice to hear from you. How’s the shop doing?”

“Not so good,” I admitted, “What with Sam arrested and all.”

“A horrible shame. I can’t imagine anyone would think he murdered Rabbi Kranzman.”

“Neither can I.” I wondered how I would ask what I needed to ask. It seemed so strange to blurt out a question like “So, Mr. Reichstein, what were you doing last night while Kranzman was getting killed?”

Luckily, he beat me to it.

“And so you’re going around asking everyone else what they were doing when the young man got murdered? Look Danny, it’s no secret I was no great fan of Kranzman, but murder’s not really my thing.”

“It’s pretty rare for anyone who’s ever killed to say it was their ‘thing,’ Mr. Reichstein.”

He laughed. “A fair point. Why don’t you meet me tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Why would you do that?”

He sighed like I’d asked the stupidest question in the world. “Because I’ll do everything I can to get Sam cleared.”

The next morning, I drove up to his three-story house in Pikesville. It was the kind of house with pink flamingos on the front lawn and three garages for two cars. I couldn’t even work up the energy to be envious. It just looked hopelessly garish, and made me miss my Park Heights apartment more.

“Come in,” he said after opening the door. The smile on his face looked painted on. For someone who claimed to want to tell me all, he didn’t act the part, shuffling nervously from side to side and stumbling when he asked if I wanted something to drink.

“Just coffee,” I answered.

He nearly spilled it on me when he came back with two cups. Once he sat down I decided I didn’t care anymore, and blurted out the question I’d wanted to ask on the phone.

His eyes widened in shock, real or otherwise. “You have some nerve, Colangelo.”

“I doubt I’ll be the last to ask the question.”

“If you must know, I was out with my wife at a movie.”

“What did you see?”

“The Da Vinci Code.” I didn’t say anything, but Reichstein continued anyway, dropping his voice to a whisper. “My wife and I got tickets to see an early release of the movie. She insisted.”

He had to be telling the truth; I’ve never seen a man wince so painfully when talking about a movie before. But it still didn’t explain the fidgeting, which was slowly driving me crazy.

“Look, the only reason I’m asking is because of Sam.”

“I know. It’s just that when I think of Rabbi Kranzman, my blood pressure goes up.”

“Why was there so much animosity?”

He settled back in his chair. Reichstein wasn’t grossly overweight, but his bulk made his stomach ripple out in waves. It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen, and I momentarily lost concentration as he spoke.

“Everyone thought it had to do with money and that somehow it was my fault he wasn’t being paid enough—”

“He wasn’t being paid enough?”

Reichstein shook his head vigorously. “He was being paid ninety grand, if you must know. Not a lot of people do, so don’t tell anybody.”

Who would I tell? I assumed Sam knew already, and he was the only one I’d share the information with.

Catching the expression on my face, Reichstein grinned. “And that’s exactly why I told you. So money, at least salary, wasn’t the problem I had.”

“So what was?”

“Think of it this way: When you’re out with people, at a meal or whatever, there are two topics you’re really not supposed to discuss in polite company.” He waited, as if I should take my cue.

“Politics and religion,” I said.

“Right you are. Money is about politics, at least in a shul setting. Which leaves religion. And that, my friend, is where Kranzman and I didn’t see eye to eye.”

“You mean he told you how to conduct your life?”

“Oh, he didn’t just tell me. He preached. He lectured. He got upset and refused to think that I — representing the viewpoints of the congregation — might have a valid opinion. At first I let it slide, what with him being so young and all.”

Menachem Kranzman was the same age as I.

Reichstein barreled on. “But then it became nearly intolerable. One time he had the gall to tell me that he’d spent a Saturday afternoon spying on his neighbors’ houses to see if they watched television on Shabbos! I mean, what crackpot does such a thing? I can’t say I’m sorry he resigned. I only wish he’d left right away.”

“What do you mean?” I straightened in my seat. “He didn’t actually quit?”

“Of course not,” said Reichstein. “Kranzman may have been a crazed loon, but he’d never break a contract. He had another six months to go and he wasn’t about to leave till he was fully paid up.”

It didn’t make sense. I mulled over Reichstein’s words as I drove home and later while I cooked dinner, but I couldn’t figure out why Kranzman had made such a public display of disaffection for hundreds of people to see if he hadn’t meant it.

“Maybe it was reverse psychology,” offered Sharon. She’d been waiting for me when I got home, eager to listen to my bit of news. She didn’t know Sam very well yet, but they were a mutual adoration society, and he’d been nearly bereft when she had to back out of attending the bat mitzvah. I half expected Sam to start shoving rings in my face at the store, but to his credit — or his caginess — he hadn’t done so.

Just thinking of him made me feel worse.

Sharon wrapped her arms around me. “Danny, he’ll be all right. Sam’s lived through far worse.”

“Than a murder charge?”

“You really think it’s going to stick? Why would Rebecca have come to you if she really felt her father had committed the crime?”

I turned around. “But I’m just not getting it yet.”

“I’ll repeat it again: Reverse psychology. Maybe Rabbi Kranzman was trying to make someone in particular believe that he was going to leave. Someone who didn’t know the particulars of the contract.”

Sharon worked in public relations, but her dad was one of the top contract lawyers in the city. And I don’t need to be reminded how lucky I was to have her in my life.

“But wouldn’t it be common knowledge amongst the synagogue’s elite?”

She stepped back, looked over her shoulder and cried out suddenly. “Oh no, it’s overcooking.” Stepping towards the stove, she turned down the burner until the pot stopped smoking so strongly.

Afterward, she said, “It might, but if the cantor and the rabbi had no love lost between each other, do you really think they shared information so easily?”

I looked at my watch. “I wonder if I can still catch him.”

She moved forward and took my arm. “Hold on. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And it’s still early. Call the cantor after dinner, and then you can track him down.”

Sharon: sensible as ever. I didn’t know for sure if I loved her, but it sure looked that way.

Three hours later, I found Cantor Cohen in the middle of a poker game. He was not happy to see me.

“And why should I interrupt this game to talk to you?”

There were two other men, both scowling at me in such a way that I should be scared. I wanted to laugh; I’d spent far too much time around crackheads to be scared of some upper middle-class types — especially those who had their poker night in the synagogue’s basement.

“You don’t have to interrupt,” I said. “I could wait till you’ve finished this hand, and then we can talk.”

“Better idea,” said the cantor. “Our regular fourth man dropped out at the last minute. And I might like you better if you play a few rounds.”

You mean you might like me if I lose some money and let you win, I thought. Which, to be honest, was a strong possibility. I never won very much at poker.

But I accepted. Luckily, they weren’t playing Texas Hold ’Em, but the more traditional game. Maybe they hadn’t caught on to the fact that no one played with full closed hands anymore, thanks to the books and TV shows that flooded the airwaves. So the first hand, I won. Then the next one. But when the overall mood shifted from collegial to surly, I folded on round three, even though it looked like I was well on my way to a straight flush.

Cohen won, and he seemed thrilled to collect the mounting spoils. “I knew fortune would swing my way!” he cried.

The other two guys probably begged to differ, because after round four, they each claimed they had to be elsewhere and took off.

Cohen seemed confused by their behavior.

“Why did they have to leave so fast?”

I shrugged. “Guess it wasn’t their night to win.”

“I suppose you’re right. So what can I do for you? Am I a suspect?”

What was with these guys asking straight out if I thought they killed Kranzman? I felt like my skills needed sharpening, like I wasn’t subtle enough.

Inexplicably, Cohen laughed. “Forget it. I have a bit of a problem, as you might have noticed.”

“Which is?”

“I’m too blunt for my own good. But Jack warned me you’d be coming—”

“He did?” Shit. Then I remembered something Sam said months ago. That there could never be secrets within a Jewish community, let alone a synagogue. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.

“Of course. I admire Jack greatly, and vice versa. We’re in constant communication.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “So does that mean you think the same things about people?”

“Not necessarily,” Cohen shot back. “But when it comes to Rabbi Kranzman, the answer is yes.”

“And does that constant communication extend to contract negotiations?”

I could see the wheels turning behind Cantor Cohen’s eyes as he considered the question.

“There are some things that aren’t anyone’s business,” he said evasively.

“Come on, you’re saying you didn’t know how much Kranzman was making?”

“Of course I did. Seventy-five thousand dollars a year; I was making five thousand more than he was.”

So much for constant communication.

“That’s not what Jack Reichstein told me the other day.”

The wheels turned some more. I could tell that Cohen didn’t know how to react. Call the president a liar, and it reflected badly on him. Accept it as truth, and he would have been played. And if he knew all along, it gave him enough motive to kill.

Cohen chose not to say anything at first.

“So you found out about the salary difference. And then you found out Kranzman wasn’t actually quitting—”

“You think that was a surprise to me? I knew that all along.”

“Kranzman told you?”

Cohen got up without warning. He went to the back of the room, and when he returned he held a piece of paper.

“This,” he said, thrusting it at me, “is a note Rabbi Kranzman sent me the night before he was murdered.”

I took it and began reading. I tried not to give away the shock I felt, but Cohen noticed.

“Exactly,” he said, crestfallen. “Kranzman couldn’t have quit the shul because he had no reason to do so.”

“Not when you were paying him five thousand a month to keep things quiet,” I added. “But how’s this supposed to prove that you weren’t involved in his death?”

“I’m as culpable as every other person he sent such notes to.”

Now this was interesting. “So he was blackmailing several people?”

“Oh yes,” said Cohen. “Rabbi Kranzman had a knack of finding things out. And then using them to further his standing.”

“But I don’t get it. People loathed him. And he resigned in person. Why would he do that?”

“Because he wanted certain people to believe he’d be crazy enough to do it. He couldn’t fool me. Find the person he did fool, and that will be your suspect.”

The next week was one of the worst I’d experienced in a long time. Sam was out on bail — on the aforementioned bond of a hundred thousand dollars — but he still refused to talk to me. I would call the house several times a day and he’d never answer. It was the strangest thing: Here I was trying to find any way possible to clear him of the charges, and he wouldn’t tell me anything at all.

There were aspects of Sam’s personality I’d never understood before, chalking it up to past remembrances and old wounds. But this hurt. We’d grown even closer in the months since my mother had died, and I viewed Sam as far more than just my boss and mentor. It was in no small part due to him that I could leave my old life behind and embrace the one I’d started anew.

Sharon tried to cheer me up, but I couldn’t shake the grumpy mood.

“He’s hiding something,” I said.

“You’re probably right,” she agreed, “but how are you going to get it out of him?”

“I wish I knew. Sam — well, you’ve met him, you know what he’s like.”

“A stubborn old bastard who likes to meddle but keep himself out of it to some degree,” Sharon said.

“Exactly. So what do I do?”

Sharon laughed. “You keep asking me that. Am I really supposed to know all the answers?”

I smoothed out a stray hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. “Except maybe how you ended up with me...”

With Sam staying silent, Rebecca remained our go-between, insisting on hearing any updates I had when she walked back into the store the following Monday morning. I hadn’t expected her to show up so early, but it made things a lot easier.

“Blackmail?” she said, after I’d told her what Cantor Cohen had said. “Are you serious?”

“Well, it’s pretty logical if you think about it. Kranzman, from all accounts, liked to know everything about everyone and judge them accordingly. So why wouldn’t he get the idea to use all that information to further himself?”

The strangest expression crossed Rebecca’s face, almost like a shadow. “Did you talk to any other people he supposedly blackmailed?”

“Cohen said there were five others. It didn’t take long for me to find them, though none were willing to say much to me.”

“Why not?” The shadow was gone.

“Embarrassment, I think. Nobody wants to admit they were paying off a rabbi with several thousand bucks a month to keep his trap shut.”

“But shouldn’t you have pried more details out of them?” she cried. “They could know something important!”

I sighed. “Not when each and every one of them had a verified alibi.” This had disappointed me too; I’d managed to check the list out by claiming I worked on behalf of the defense team, and information was easy to come by after that.

“Oh,” Rebecca said in a small voice.

“But there is one thing that seems to come up again and again.”

Rebecca’s head jerked up. “What?”

“That Kranzman’s resignation was a bluff.”

Rebecca looked incredulous. “It took him all of twenty minutes to ruin my daughter’s bat mitzvah, and you’re saying he was faking it?”

“Jack Reichstein has good reason to believe it. So does Cantor Cohen.”

The blood drained out of her face. It was one thing to accept that Kranzman wanted to shock, but quite another to believe that he’d used a joyous affair simply as a means to grandstand.

“I can’t believe he’d sink so low,” she said after a long while.

“Look,” I said, wanting to change the subject slightly, “when is Sam’s arraignment?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

I felt like I’d been sucker punched. “I’ll be there.”

“Please, Danny. Sam wants you in the store.”

“I’ll get someone else,” I said, not bothering to keep the frustration out of my voice. “It’s the least I can do.”

Rebecca left soon after. I had no doubt now that her father wasn’t the only Levin hiding something. And with Sam not talking to me, there was only one person left to speak to.

Business was slow, and after six hours of doing virtually nothing, I finally called Rebecca’s house. I knew she wouldn’t be home because she’d gone straight to work after her strange visit. But her daughter Shira would be home.

She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Shira, my name is Danny Colangelo—”

“I know you! You work with zayda at the store.”

“That’s right. Listen, I don’t want to bother you for too long, but did your mother have some words with the rabbi?”

Something changed in Shira’s voice. She almost sounded excited. “How did you know? She came home after... everything and she was even more upset than usual.”

“Why?”

“Because the rabbi had said something to her in the bathroom.”

“He followed her into the bathroom?”

“Yeah, it was weird. I was already in there, and I was just about to leave when I heard his voice and my mom’s. Then I couldn’t leave so I stayed and listened. They kept their voices down, but he sounded like someone in one of those old movies, threatening the heroine or something.”

I was about to ask something else but Shira interrupted me. “Damn, my mom’s home. I better go. Bye!”

I cradled the phone. There was my answer.

I buzzed the door of Sam’s apartment, wondering if he’d actually let me in. To my surprise, he buzzed me in, and I walked up the five flights of stairs hoping he wouldn’t shut me out.

Sam’s eyes brightened at first when he opened the door, then narrowed into slits.

“Danny, what the hell took you so long?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What do you mean?”

“Rebecca said that you were too busy asking everyone else what they were doing when the rabbi got himself killed to come and see me.”

“Sam,” I said, adjusting to the rickety chair opposite Sam’s rocking chair, “your daughter’s been playing each of us off the other. She said you didn’t want me to come see you.”

“And you listened to her?”

“Why wouldn’t I? She’s your daughter.”

He shook his head sadly. “Yes. She is. But she got herself way in over her head.”

I didn’t know what to do: shake him or hug him. “And that’s why you allowed yourself to be arrested?”

“I knew the truth would come out,” he explained. “And even if it didn’t, I’ve survived far worse.”

“But this is your life they’re messing with, Sam! You’d just give up everything?”

For so long he’d looked a little frailer than he ought to. Now, somehow, he looked strong, even vigorous.

“I’m an old man, Danny. I’ve lived more years than I have left, and I’ve been fortunate that most of those years turned out to be very good. I saw my children grow up, give birth to their children, and now the youngest has had her celebration. And what my daughter did, she had her reasons.”

“Reasons that don’t include stabbing a rabbi in the chest twelve times.”

Sam recoiled. “I didn’t know that.”

“Nobody told you?”

The vigor disappeared, and he looked like a tired old man once again. “All I know is that Kranzman died quickly.”

Neither of us spoke for a bit. My mind went round in circles: Sam was prepared to go to jail for his daughter, which would deprive him of his family for the rest of his days. But if he was free, Rebecca’s punishment would tear apart both older and younger generations.

I looked at him, searching for a solution. Somehow, it had become my decision to make. I knew all too well what awaited either of them in prison. I’d survived, but I couldn’t be certain that either of them would.

Finally, I looked Sam in the eye. “I’ll find a way,” I said.

“You always do, Danny. Even when you think you can’t.”

It was my cue to leave, but then the door opened.

“Daddy, are you going to be all right for tomorrow—”

Rebecca stopped when she saw me.

“Hello, Rebecca.”

She looked at her father, then back at me, her mouth open as if she would say something. When she did, it sounded like she hadn’t spoken for weeks.

“You know.”

“I didn’t tell him!” Sam said.

“Of course not,” Rebecca snapped. “I didn’t misdirect things enough. I tried, sneaking that note into the cantor’s place—”

“You put it there?” I said. “But your name was on the list!”

“Not originally.”

She went into the kitchen to get a drink. It struck me as ironic, that someone who’d stabbed a man twelve times for reasons I’d yet to figure out could calmly walk into the kitchen like that.

“I don’t get it,” I said, when Rebecca returned. “Why would you do this to your father?”

“I wasn’t going to do anything! There’s so little to hold him that Sam’s lawyer is confident the charges will be dropped in the morning. The police don’t have anything.”

“They have you, Rebecca.”

She spat at me. “What the hell do you know? You’re just a druggie ex-con who got the job out of pity. You think you’re good enough? You think you can waltz into my father’s life and be like the son he never had, when he already had children? And grandchildren?”

I watched Sam, his face turning to utter horror at his daughter’s words.

Rebecca rushed toward him, falling to her knees, sobbing. “But Daddy! I loved him, I loved him so much, and he ruined everything! He was going to leave, and that he humiliated Shira, hurt me like that—”

Finally, he spoke.

“I expected better of you,” he said, the voice of a man whose spirit had finally broken.

The shop stayed shut for several weeks after Rebecca turned herself in. I visited Sam as much as I could, and he tried to be his usual joking self, but we both knew it was futile. The only times he brightened up were when I brought Sharon around. One time he whispered, “Don’t let her go, Danny. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

I looked at her, the lustrous brown hair that always seemed moments from escaping from its ponytail, the eyes so bright and alive.

“You think so?” I whispered back.

“Absolutely.”

I knew better than to ignore his advice. But on the way home, I told Sharon I needed to make one last stop.

“Where to?” she asked, bewildered in the change of plans.

“There’s a poker game I need to sit in on.”

“Promise you won’t stay late?”

“That’s the easiest promise I can make.”

She swung the car over to the synagogue’s entrance. I kissed her quickly before heading downstairs to the game. Jack Reichstein, Cantor Cohen, and the gabbai, whose name I didn’t remember, were deep into a competitive round. A pile of chips was stacked in front of Cohen, who seemed to relish his good fortune.

Everyone turned when I shut the door behind me.

“Looking for a fourth?” I said.

Reichstein grinned. “For you? Anything.”

In this case, politics wasn’t more predictable because any thought of stacking the deck was shot at every turn. And I wanted something predictable.

I sat in and let everyone else win.